THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: THE FEMALE WARRIOR
Written by By Boikanyo Pela
I’ve heard tales of ferocious African warriors. I’ve read of their fortitude in overcoming fear and protecting their women and children, how fiercely they defended their lands and livestock. I’ve heard about men who are tall, Black and African, with thick muscles, men who are built like my father. For a very long time, in my small mind, my father represented the warrior. He would care for us and defend us like the legendary warriors.
My father, Ephraim, was a well-respected man. He worked in a mine a bit far from home. He would come home every month end without fail. Sometimes he would make it home twice in a month. Every time he entered the house, he brought joy with him. He never failed to make us laugh. When he left the house, he made sure to leave me, his daughter, with a little bit more confidence.
He was a good father. He loved my mother, he loved all of us, and he was a happy man. Thabo, my little brother, saw him as a role model. He would go outside every evening to lift weights just so he would look like my dad. I used to mock him because, despite his efforts, he was still small and lacked bulk. I thought he looked like a stick at times, and he didn’t like my candour. Of course, we did not get along that well, because I did not believe in his ‘fitness routine.’ He complained about the greasy food we ate, but I could not help think he needed a bit of fat. As one can tell, he was my annoying sibling, but behind closed doors, far underneath all the flesh and subcutaneous tissue, the heart guarded by my ribcage held a lot of love for him. It was not information he needed to hear, though. I had to act tough and insensitive in front of him. I had to be the older sister. The fact that he was a boy often meant that he could belittle me any chance he got. I wanted him to respect me, because despite being a girl, I was his older sister. For the longest time, I was glad he looked skinny. What would happen if he were all bulky like my dad? I would lose every fight we had, I thought.
I was a bit popular with the kids in the neighbourhood. My father bought cordial things for us, and I always had the coolest stationery. I would carry some pocket money to get atchaar and chips. I was a light eater, and so, I often didn’t finish my food. My friends appreciated my leftovers, because the atchaar I added to my food brought flavour to the plain food they served us during lunch at school. And so, I always had people following me around, especially during breaktime. I thought I was loveable and had a good personality.
My brother often argued that I was arrogant, and people only liked me for what I had to offer, but I begged to differ. I was a confident young lady and had a lot to offer. Outside of all the fame, I was smart. I found school way too easy and would often read extracurricular material. I liked stories about ancient Africa. The kingdoms and arrangements always intrigued me. I got fascinated and saddened by the way powerful women would not be given enough respect. Every piece that I read brought this strong feeling inside of me, and I decided to stand for women in the modern society.
Most of the time, I would think about my mother, who had so much talent and so much to contribute to the world. Despite her enormous potential, she chose to remain a housewife. I couldn’t understand why mother couldn’t just make her own money and avoid having to report all of her expenses to my father. Didn’t she long for freedom? My father was a good man, but he was too conservative. As a woman, the only way to get along with him was to keep your head down and listen more than you spoke. That is how he was reared. From a polygamous family, as the least favourite child, his first instinct was survival. His father had killed his mother at a noticeably immature age because she was seen being helped by the enemy by the river. We were not allowed to talk about it, but the story was quite known in our community. People talked and it was hard to ignore.
She was struggling to carry water from the river. A story of a fragile, pregnant woman, accepting the aid she clearly needed. When her husband heard of it, he decided that his reputation was more important than his heavily pregnant wife. He had to kill her just to set the record straight. He didn’t care if his unborn child would also die. A grandmother I would need, killed by my grandfather. Yes, my grandfather was a cold-blooded murderer. How could one ignore such a story?
I am not one to pass judgement on murderers; I have my own demons to contend with, and I have blood on my hands. I was troubled by stories of women being abused; you see. I couldn’t stand it; I’d read too much about it to realise how pleasurable the deed must have been for the culprit. The degree of rage someone felt when committing an act of violence against women made them the most heinous parasites, feeding on innocent, helpless souls. The imagination was simply too painful and revolting for me to stomach, but I still read about it.
As one might expect, I had no idea I’d be able to witness the deed.
One gorgeous Saturday morning, as we were tidying the house for my father’s visit later that evening, I came across an envelope. I opened it and read the contents since I was too inquisitive. It was an approved letter from my school. It was a letter of authorisation permitting my mother to use the school tuckshop! She had long desired the freedom I had always desired for her! I couldn’t believe it. I carefully closed the envelope and placed it back where I found it. I waited for my father to arrive in the evening.
We had supper together, as a complete family. We were laughing and it was a beautiful evening, one of those one would be too scared to ruin. At one point, my mother told me to go fetch the envelope from the little corner table in her room, she had something to show my father. I left the living room to fetch it, not knowing how to feel about this sudden confrontation. It felt like one, telling a man like my father that you wanted to make your own money as a woman could be easily digested as an insult. I understood why my mother had to share the news with him, though. She needed him to invest. She needed the capital.
I came back, holding the long-awaited envelope, and firmly placed it in my mother’s hand. I wanted her to know that I supported her, but I doubt that’s how she interpreted the strength I had invested into placing the envelope in her hand. She just gave me a disapproving look and proceeded to open the envelope. She passed the letter to my father. How could she forget that her husband was illiterate? It didn’t matter though, for he asked my brother to read the letter and explain it to him. He listened, as he slowly chewed his food. I tried to read his emotions from his face, but all I could see was his attentiveness.
At one point he looked down to his food, and it took him a few seconds to raise his head after my brother was done reading to him, but he eventually did. His eyes were red as he raised his head.
“So, all that I do for you in this house is not enough?” he finally asked.
My mother kept quiet. She looked as if she was regretting her decision. Was that fear in her eyes? The more I looked at her, the clearer it became. That was fear. Why was she so afraid of this man? I’ve heard her screaming a few times when my father was home, but I did not make much of it. Was she one of the women who suffer silently from abuse?
“Baba, the kids are old enough now, I don’t need to stay at home all day.”
I cannot remember a lot, but food was flying in just a split-second and all I could hear was echoes of a roar that sounded “woman!”. Was this still about the letter? I saw his firm hand on my mother’s neck and before I could digest anything that had happened, he pushed her down and started kicking her with his mine boots. Was this man still my father?
“Not in front of the kids, Ephraim!” my mother pleaded.
Had this happened before? Why was she too worried about it happening in front of us more than she was about it happening at all? The food my mother had spent so much time preparing was all over the floor. Nothing made sense, everything felt like a dream.
I took Thabo into my hands and tried to block his sight with my hand. He quickly removed it and started crying. I looked at my mother, crunched up, with her arms above her head. He was going to kill her. What was this about? Was he angered by the idea of her independence? At that moment, I wished Thabo was not that skinny, I wished he would do something instead of cry like a baby in a corner. I wished I could do something.
Mother was in pain! Mother was slowly dying, and I couldn’t just watch. I hated the fact that all I could do was remain frozen. I felt helpless. It was too fast for me to process any emotions, but I felt the story of my grandfather and grandmother replay somewhere in the part of my brain that wasn’t frozen. Ephraim started punching my mother, while occasionally strangling her. She was starting to look pale. Was that blood on her face? It was as if she was dying in his hands, and he couldn’t care less. Who was this demonic man? What had happened to my father?
I placed my eyes on one of my mother’s vases, and I picked it up. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I was acting, and I was saving my mother. I used all my strength to hit my father on the head with the vase. He turned to face me as he slowly bent to the ground. Our eyes locked, and I saw the anger in his eyes. He was no longer a warrior; he was no longer a protector. He was capable of killing me. I wasn’t ready to die, I had so much to live for. I felt this rush of anger and fear simultaneously, and I kept on hitting him with the vase, using all my strength. The world was still, it was screaming my name, and I did not stop. I saw a huge knife in the pile of food that had splashed on the ground, and I took it. I stabbed my father. He was no longer trying to fight back. It was over. I was safe, we were safe.
I slowly turned to face my brother in the corner. He was crying helplessly. I turned and locked eyes with my mother. Was that fear I saw in her eyes? She had bruises all over. I smiled at her. She opened her mouth to say something.
“What have you done?” she muttered softly.
I was exhausted. I had fought a beast. I felt weak, and I slowly let myself go. A lot had happened in just a few minutes. Right then, I knew my whole life had changed. I knew nothing would ever be the same. I blacked out.
PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3
PUBLISH'D AFRIKA 